


shadows have their seasons

by therestlessbrook



Series: that prison au [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Post-Prison, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: This is one thing she’ll never take for granted—this easy affection and the freedom to explore it. There was a time when she couldn’t imagine the two of them on a park bench, kissing, a dog leash wrapped around her wrist.(After escaping prison, Karen and Frank build a life together.And then David Lieberman shows up.)
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Series: that prison au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615921
Comments: 29
Kudos: 111





	shadows have their seasons

Karen Page wakes to the sound of a yell.

She sits bolt upright, her fingers clawing at the duvet cover. There’s a rustle of noise, a scrabble of claws against hardwood floors, and then the bed jounces. The darkness is pierced only by the street lights slotting through their closed blinds; Karen’s heart throbs as those blinds are twitched open.

Frank Castle’s silhouette is only visible for the briefest moment. His face is framed by lamplight—the hard edge of his chin and nose. Then he lets the blinds fall back into place. “Some drunk kids outside,” he says quietly. “One of ‘em tripped over a trashcan.”

Karen can’t quite answer aloud, so she just nods into the dark. Frank kneels, murmurs quietly to the dog. Tansy doesn’t like yelling either, and she makes a soft grumbling sound as Frank rubs her chest and neck. He returns to the bed, reaches for Karen. She allows herself to be pulled against him, to close her eyes and retreat into the safety of his arms.

There are some memories that are muscle-deep. And one of Karen’s memories is being woken in the night, knowing that she had to fight for her own life. It takes a good few minutes before her heartbeat calms.

They deal with their nightmares in different ways: Frank will go for walks, even if the air is cold and hour late. His memories are the kind that drive him to action, to movement. For Karen, she deals with her past by not retreating inward. There’s an old technique she remembers Curtis mentioning. She has never actually sat in on one of his vet’s meetings, but she’s served meals with him, helped donate used books, stacked chairs and laid out disposable coffee cups.

_Look at where you are now, not then. Pick out details._

Their bedroom is painted a delicate yellow. There is a dresser in the corner—chipped white paint and a mirror attached. It’s old, though, and Karen has always done her make-up in the bathroom. In the other corner is a dog bed where Tansy sleeps. The bedside table is bamboo and new, the one thing thing Karen allowed herself to buy new when Ellison finally hired her on full time.

 _You really know how to go wild,_ Frank said with a laugh.

 _I need some things close to the bed,_ she replied.

The table has two drawers built into it—and in the top drawer is the handgun that Frank gave her so long ago, along with a spare clip.

The bottom drawer has a bottle of painkillers, a few old condoms, Karen’s spare sunglasses, a notepad, and a few pens. It’s the usual bedroom clutter.

Karen drinks in the familiarity. It soothes her in a way that’s almost startling. She never really thought of herself as someone who valued the concept of home—of a place that is safe and hers. She’s used to flitting from cheap apartment to cheap apartment. But she’s sunk in roots here, and she knows it’s entirely because of the man whose fingers are currently carding through her hair.

“Hey,” he says. His chest is bare, his skin warm against hers. “You okay?”

There’s a moment of quiet; he gives her the time to think about her answer. She loves him. More than she can ever say.

“I’m fine,” she says softly. It’s not quite a lie. She will be fine. She strokes a hand up his side; his muscles are taut beneath her fingertips. He has his own nightmares, she knows. His own memories that wake him.

She feels his mouth against her hairline. “Go back to sleep,” he says.

But even as she begins to drift, part of Karen registers that Frank’s arms never quite relax.

* * *

Life in New York goes on. It always does. And for the most part, Karen enjoys her life.

She’s a full-time reporter—no longer a part time assistant. After the Midland Circle incident, a few reporters decided to take up residence in a city without earthquakes, monsters and aliens. That left a few open spots in the Bulletin’s roster of journalists. Ellison’s job offer was along the lines of, “The pay won’t be great; you’re going to be running all over and working weird hours; keep a file in your desk for death threats.” When she asked exactly what perks the job came with, he snorted and said, “Our coffee maker’s pretty damn good. And you’re going to be doing what you love.” A pat on her shoulder, and she found herself working as a crime reporter.

It’s true—she does love it.

Frank is working for some demolition company; it keeps him active and out of the public eye. He admitted once he likes the physicality of it—there’s a meditative rhythm to breaking things down piece by piece. With his hardhat and his beard, he’s unrecognizable as the stark-eyed creature that once stood over her, a bloody shiv in his hand and bodies at his feet.

Karen takes Tansy to work with her. If anyone asks, she’ll say that Tansy is a service dog and leave it at that—which she used to feel slightly guilty about, until one day when Tansy got a piece of glass in her paw and had to spend the day at the vet’s. Karen had to go to work alone and she was keyed up all day, bereft of Tansy’s steady presence. She’s grown used to Tansy’s weight against her feet, to the knowledge that she isn’t alone.

After being framed and sent to prison for a year, Karen allows herself certain comforts.

And besides—Ellison loves Tansy. He keeps a bag of dog treats in his desk.

Not everything is perfect, though. After Midland Circle… well, that knocked her off balance for several months. She and Matt were just beginning to reconnect, to talk again, when everything went to hell. Losing him so abruptly tore a hole in her new life, and it still hurts. Foggy has it worse than she does—he seems to think it’s his fault.

But at least Luke Cage is out of prison, which she appreciates. She has grabbed lunch with him and his girlfriend Claire a few times. She ended up writing a profile on him and she was pretty pleased with the results. She has considered doing pieces on each of the vigilantes involved in Midland, but that billionaire kid has his secretary screening his calls and Jessica Jones’ phone just keeps saying ‘this voicemail box is full’ in a that slightly nasal, mechanical tone.

“Don’t take it personally,” says Luke, one morning at a coffee shop. He’s drinking an herbal tisane while she is on her second latte. “The kid’s got his own PR team and Jessica would probably swear so much you wouldn’t have a single usable quote.”

The coffee shop is quiet; it’s too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.

“It’s only a matter of time until there’s another DA like Reyes,” says Karen. She tapes a painted nail against the table’s dented surface. Tansy is curled up beneath the table, half-dozing in the morning sunlight. “Someone who looks at what you and people like you have done, and sees it as a challenge. Something to be broken apart. I was thinking I could get ahead of that, make the public understand you’re all people doing your best. That way it’ll be more difficult if anyone tries to come after you again.”

Luke snorts. “If Jess does take your call, don’t put it like that. She’ll hang up halfway through your sales pitch.”

“Noted,” says Karen. “And thank you for being the only vigilante willing to be interviewed.”

Luke shrugs one shoulder. His shirt is well-fitted, his manner just as easy as ever. Several women across the coffee shop are eyeing him with interest. “A lot of people talking about me these days. At least I know you’re not going to print anything too terrible.” His eyes are steady on hers. “And I’m sure I’m not the only vigilante you could ask.”

Karen’s gaze falls to her coffee cup.

She has written some articles about Frank. After his escape from prison and subsequent ‘death,’ she put together a few pieces about the drug deal gone wrong, trying to explain what had happened. They were mostly buried at the back of the crime section, and she was never entirely sure anyone saw them.

But apparently Luke read them.

He has never asked directly about Frank, but she suspects Luke knows that he’s alive. How, she’s not sure. When Midland Circle went down, Karen made Frank stay out of it. It was the only real fight they’ve had since he escaped prison; he said he wasn’t going to let her walk into danger without him and she tried to convince him that the Punisher showing up wouldn’t help things. In the end, Karen promised to try and stick to research, to stay out of the line of fire.

She succeeded. Mostly.

A treacherous voice inside of her whispers, _But maybe if Frank had been involved, Matt would still be alive._

Or maybe Frank would be dead, too.

Karen bites on the inside of her cheek, trying to distract herself from that thought.

She and Luke discuss a few trivialities—the fall weather, what Tansy’s tried to chew on, and the general state of New York crime. She genuinely enjoys talking to Luke; he’s one of the few reminders of her time in prison that doesn’t hurt. Him and Lucero—who, she reminds herself, she needs to schedule a visit with. It’s been a few weeks since they talked.

When the conversation winds down, Luke rises from the table. “You take care of yourself, all right?” he says. He bends down to give Tansy a few pats and her tail thumps against the floor.

“You, too,” Karen says, smiling. She watches him go, her fingers wrapped around her now-cold coffee. She throws it back, gulping down the dregs before rising. Leash tucked around her arm, she returns to the counter to order two sandwiches and a cup of coffee to go. The barista—a pleasant-looking man with curly hair—gives her a tolerant look. “Third cup?”

“It’s not for me,” she replies, smiling. “Boyfriend.”

“Ah, sure,” says the barista, grinning. When he hands over her order, there’s an extra paper back. “For the dog,” he says, when she glances at it. Sure enough, there’s a dog treat inside. Karen slips a few extra dollars into the tip jar before she leaves.

It’s a fifteen minute walk to Frank’s work site. It’s actually not too far from their apartment, which makes for an easy commute home for him. He’s worked with this crew for about six months and the most he’ll say about them is, “It’s work. A few assholes. Some not. Mostly people just there for the paycheck.”

On the days when Karen can meet him for lunch, she’ll text him from the curb. But her coffee meeting with Luke ended early, so she walks into the parking lot. It looks like any other construction site: a gutted building, scaffolding up the sides, parked cars and a few guys in hard hats and vests talking to one another. Karen can see Frank by the building, pulling off his hat. Tansy whines a little, her tail wagging hard at the sight of Frank. Karen smiles and walks toward him. On her way, she passes a flashy muscle car with four guys leaning against it.

One of the men lets out a piercing whistle. Three more heads swing around, and she can feel their gazes like a weight. “Hey, beautiful,” says one of them. “How’re you doing?”

She ignores him.

The other man lets out a laugh. “Don’t think you’re her type, Lance.”

The first man’s voice hardens. “Hey, you!”

Karen doesn’t so much as look at them. She’s dealt with cat-callers every since she moved to New York, so she does what she always has—eyes ahead, stride never faltering. Frank is about thirty feet away, talking to a young man she doesn’t know.

A hand closes around her wrist. It’s warm, a little sticky with sweat. It’s the first man, the one who called out to her. “You’re not supposed to be here—”

It happens without her thinking about it. Karen breaks the grip first, then she brings her knee up into the man’s gut as hard as she can. He jack-knifes onto the pavement with a wheeze. His friend seems at a loss for what to do—his hands are out, but like he’s unsure whether to grab for Karen or defend himself. Tansy is growling, her lips pulled back and muscles taut. It’s a wonder that neither Karen nor the man ended up tangled in her leash.

The man, Lance, staggers upright, trying to catch his breath. “You bitch—”

And then Frank is there. He doesn’t so much as say a word; he merely insinuates himself into the space between Karen and Lance. She can feel the violence crackling off him like static electricity. His broad shoulders are taut, a muscle working in his neck.

“Well if it isn’t the gimp,” says the other man. He sneers at Frank, clearly puffing himself up. “You think you can take me?”

“Touch her again,” says Frank quietly. “And find out.”

Karen bites back a curse. This is the last thing either of them needs—a fight at Frank’s workplace. While Frank’s forged ID is pretty good, courtesy of Hodges’ contact, they can’t afford to have Frank arrested. His beard and longer hair will only go so far to hide his identity; all they’d have to do is finger print him to know that he’s the Punisher.

“Come on.” Karen wraps her fingers around Frank’s sleeve, tugging him back. She can feel the stiffness in his posture, the yearning to take a swing at the other man. Frank goes willingly after a heartbeat, wrapping his arm around her waist. It’s comfort and a claim in a single gesture, and Karen has no problem with it.

“Fucking hell,” says the second one. “Never mind, Lance. You don’t want the gimp’s sloppy seconds. Besides, he’s probably just paying for it.”

Frank’s fingers tighten around Karen’s waist. “Not worth it,” she murmurs.

“You got to hit him,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Only fair I do, too.”

She smiles a little, leaning into him. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

They leave the construction area, toward nearby park. Once they’re out of sight of the other men, she feels Frank’s arm relax. “Sorry about that,” Frank says. “I should’ve met you on the sidewalk or something.”

“I was early,” said Karen.

“Still.” She can almost hear Frank’s jaw clenching. She knows that he doesn’t give a damn what anyone says about him—but the moment they so much as look at Karen wrong, Frank is on the defensive.

“I heard worse in prison,” says Karen. “Don’t even think about them.”

Frank makes a low sound. “They’re pieces of shit, Lance, Paulie, and his buddies. I told them to knock it off my first week when they were cat-calling some girls. Teenagers, by the look of things. They’ve had it out for me ever since.”

“You don’t need this job,” she says. “You can always find another one.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine for now. I stay out of their way, they stay out of mine.”

“Who were you talking to?” she asks.

“Donny. New kid—seems all right. Kinda reminds me of Lucero. Just walked up to me and started talking.”

Karen smiles. “You do tend to attract them, don’t you?”

“No idea why.” His hand rests at her hip, warm and steady.

“You could’ve invited him along,” she says. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He leans over, kisses her cheek. “Wanted you to myself today.”

They eat in a nearby park. Tansy gobbles down her treat and watches nearby pigeons with a kind of blissful agony. She’s too well-trained to chase them, but she twitches every time one wanders by. Karen laughs and pats her on the back when one of the birds comes within a few feet, giving Frank’s sandwich a keen look. Tansy whines softly.

“How’s Cage?” asks Frank.

Karen swallows a bit of dry crust and has to clear her throat. “Pretty good. We went to some coffee shop where people wouldn’t immediately recognize him. He says people are even trying to create apps to track him.”

“That sounds screwed up.”

“Yeah, he didn’t seem all that happy with celebrity status,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t either. I guess that’s why Matt—” She stumbles over his name a little. “Did things the way he did. And I’m glad you don’t have to worry about that.”

Frank swallows a bite of his sandwich. “Tell Cage to grow a beard or something. Not a bad way to stay undercover, but I did have two more people call me a hipster this week.”

She smirks. “Oh, the trauma.”

He flashes a smile with the corner of his mouth. “You keep joking. Wait until I grow a man bun.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says. She reaches up to tug gently on a lock of his hair. “Something to hold onto.”

His pupils flare wide, and then he is kissing her. This is one thing she’ll never take for granted—this easy affection and the freedom to explore it. There was a time when she couldn’t imagine the two of them on a park bench, kissing, a dog leash wrapped around her wrist.

She pulls back, laughing quietly. “You’ve got crumbs in your beard.”

He curses softly, fingers scouring across his face.

It only makes her laugh harder.

* * *

But there are moments when neither can shake the shadows of their past.

Karen wakes at three in the morning.

At once, she knows why—there is movement beside her, a rustle of sheets and whisper of skin. Karen reaches out, her fingers seeking—and not finding. Her eyes flutter open and she sits up, blinking into the darkness. “Frank?”

The dim light slanting through the curtains is just enough to make out Frank’s form. He moves with care and silence, and it’s only when she hears the soft murmur of fabric does she realize he’s getting dressed.

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

Part of her wants to pull him back, but he is out of reach. And there are moments when he cannot bear to be caged, even if it’s merely by walls. She understands; she has her own nightmares, her own nights when she has to step out onto the fire escape and breathe the open air.

“You putting on shoes?” she asks, when she hears the familiar hiss of the zipper.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he says.

She checks the alarm clock. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

She won’t tell him to be careful, because he’s going to be the most dangerous person out on those streets. So instead, she says, “Let Tansy into the bedroom?”

He nods, then steps outside.

There’s a quiet murmur, then the click of nails on hardwood as Tansy trots into the bedroom. Then the familiar sound of the front door being unlatched, then opened. Frank will lock it behind him.

Karen lets out a breath. Then she pats the blankets beside her. “Come on, you.”

Tansy doesn’t need telling twice. She leaps atop the bed, curling up beside Karen with a happy little groan. She knows this is a rare treat and not the norm, which is why Karen feels like she can indulge a little. Without Frank in the bed, it feels far too big.

It isn’t the first time he’s needed time on his own, and Karen understands.

But still.

There are moments when Karen wonders if this is enough for him. If she is enough for him. Frank has never lived a truly domestic life, not for longer than a few months. Frank is a man who can never seem to sit still for long. He spent his adult life torn between his need to fight and his family. And when they were killed, that need consumed him. In prison, he had little choice but to remain in place, and even there, he had plenty of targets to vent his anger upon. Out here, they’ve built a life. A good one, in her opinion. They’ve got a decent apartment, the world’s best dog, and each other.

But still—she catches sight of his fingers twitching when he thinks she isn’t looking.

And those moments make her feel very alone.

Tansy groans happily, her tail hitting the duvet cover. She’s so glad to be in the bed that Karen can’t help but smile. She strokes the dog’s soft ears, presses a kiss to her head, and falls asleep.

When she wakes a second time, it’s five thirty in the morning—and at once, she knows something is wrong. The door closes a little too hard, and the resounding footsteps are quick. Karen rises to one elbow, bedcovers slipping down her shoulder as Frank walks into the bedroom. The first thing she wants to ask is if he really took a two and a half hour walk. But then, the acrid scent of smoke and gunfire hits her.

Karen sits up, all of the sleep falling away in an instant. She flicks on the small reading lap and hastens around the bed, coming to stand before him. She reaches up, hands hovering over his face. There’s blood flecked along one cheek, a dark stain across his jacket.

But his fingers are still.

“What happened?” she asks.

He takes a step back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I went on a walk. Went by the site—heard screams.”

“Oh god.” She presses a hand to her mouth.

“They were going to kill him,” he says. “Lance, Paulie. They had him in a fucking pit, turned on the cement machine.”

“Frank, who?” she says, dreading the answer.

“Donny.” Frank lets out a harsh breath. “Lance had some fucked up plan to rob the Gnucci’s poker game. Overheard them the other day. Didn’t know they’d brought Donny into it. Only realized when I overheard them. He let his ID slip or something when they were robbing the place.”

Karen draws in a sharp breath. “What?”

“From the sound of things, Lance wanted to kill Donny so he couldn’t talk.” Frank shakes his head. “Donny’s got a grandmother, took that job to pay for her meds. His dad—his dad served, parents died in a car crash. I couldn’t just let it happen. Had to step in.”

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” she says.

He nods. “No other way out of it. One pulled a gun—it was me or them.”

She touches his cheek. She would never, ever condemn him for killing out of self defense. He knows that; which means that the source of his discomfort has yet to be spoken. “Donny?”

“Alive,” he says.

“And what about the Gnucci’s?”

She suspects she knows the answer. The smell of gunpowder is too sharp to have come from a single firearm.

He looks at her. And it’s all the confirmation she needs.

“Frank, if anyone saw you—”

“No one saw me,” says Frank quietly. “I kept my hood up. Face down. Any street cameras would’ve only seen a man in a black jacket. I know what I’m doing, sweetheart.”

She knows his crimes; he told her the broad strokes in prison, and then when she was investigating his case, she found all of the gruesome details. She has always known who and what Frank is—the kind of man who can take a life if it needs to be taken. But going after a mob… that’s different. It’s too close to his former life, straying too near to what got him sent to prison.

“Come on,” she says, and tugs him into the bathroom. He strips out of his clothes while she yanks the shower to life, waiting for the water to warm. Frank is loading his clothes into a disposable garbage bag. “I’ll take them to the laundromat tomorrow,” she says. “We’ll have to wipe down your shoes, though.” She begins to step around him, but he catches her by the arm, pulls her close. On any other night, the heat coming off his skin would be soothing. But now, she can only think of how he worked up that sweat. Of how easily everything could go wrong again.

He kisses her temple, then her hair. “S’okay.”

She wishes she could believe him.

* * *

She writes an article about the Gnucci poker game. She calls it a murder/suicide, because that’s how Frank made it look, how the police reports will see it. As for the three deaths at the construction site, it looks as though Lance and his friends got into an altercation and killed one another. Karen writes a second article about them, but it’s small and tucked away in a corner of the Bulletin’s website.

It feels like trying to stitch a wound shut—every word another tug of the string, stemming the flow of blood.

But some part of her is cold with dread, because no matter how much Frank will deny it, she saw him in those first few moments after he came home, blood crusted beneath his nails.

Shoulders unbowed, gaze determined, all of the grief driven away by action.

The violence unburdened him in a way that Karen never could.


End file.
